


Slippery When Wet

by FrancesHouseman



Series: Bon Jovi? Really? [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhibitionism, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Songfic, Voyeurism, open door, songfic sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2 of my Bon Jovi thing because P87 asked for more.</p><p>No more Bon Jovi now, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slippery When Wet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Handsabroad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handsabroad/gifts).



_Whooah, we're half way there_  
 _Livin' on a prayer_  
 _Take my hand and we'll make it - I swear_  
 _Livin' on a prayer_

 

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam says, a week after Jess’s death.

 

“For what?”

 

“I’m sorry for leaving. It was a mistake.” Sam looks forlorn. He turns the handgun over and over, head bowed. His face is obscured by hair. Dean wants to push back the hair that’s hiding his brother. He thinks Sammy needs a hairband, or maybe he should tie his fringe in a pineapple on top of his head like those strange little dogs that wear tartan coats. Sam does look like a kicked puppy at the moment. Dean has an urge to pet his head.

 

“And Jess died because of me,” Sam says miserably, “She didn’t need to die.”

 

And there it is, the thing Sam has been thinking all along. He didn’t need to say it because Dean knew Sam was thinking it, of course he did, but Sam does like to talk.

 

Dean’s not sure about this. Talking about Dean’s problems is strictly off limits but this is Sammy’s stuff and maybe he can help, except that Sam has it all mixed up with leaving for Stanford and Dean’s not sure that he trusts himself to talk about that, even with Sam. Especially with Sam. He could end the conversation with something meaningless, _It’s not your fault Sammy_ , or, _You couldn’t have known_.

 

“We’ll get the sonofabitch,” Dean says. “He’s gonna pay Sammy, I promise.”

 

Sam nods. He seems to see the gun in his hands for the first time and carefully sets it aside. When he looks up his eyes are dry. “I had to try for a normal life,” he says, “and this is how it turned out.”

 

He runs a hand back through the shaggy fringe and there he is for a moment, Dean’s baby brother, baby no longer. Sam’s turned into a man and Dean has missed it. Sam took it away from him. Dean mourns the three years that the boy-Sam stole from him, and he mourns Sammy the child.

 

“And it’s not okay,” Sam opens his palms helplessly. “ _She died_ ,” he whispers.

 

 _Don’t cry Sammy_ , Dean thinks. But Sam’s got it. “But I still had to try,” he says after a moment, “And that’s just how it is.”

 

Dean thinks maybe that’s all. Sam’s looking small and sad again, like he needs a hug that Dean doesn’t trust himself to give.

 

Sam says, “So I guess I’d do it again but I know…” he looks to Dean for help “I’m just so sorry…”

 

 _That you broke my heart._ Yeah. Dean knows.

 

“We’re going to be okay Sammy,” Dean says because he thinks this is really what Sam’s asking, “You and me, we’re gonna be just fine.” And he thinks, _I forgave you before you asked me to Sammy, before you even left_. _You’ll never lose me._

 

Sam gives him a small smile and Dean thinks he did manage to help a bit, although it wasn’t exactly a marathon talk.

 

“Man I’m starving,” Dean says. “Bucket of crispy chicken? Cures all woes,” and he waggles his eyebrows in the way Sam laughed at when they were too young for high school.

 

The rest of Sam’s smile catches up and Dean thinks he was wrong. Sammy hasn’t changed at all.

 

****

 

“I wasn’t going back to Jess you know,” Sam says out of the blue while they’re watching a football game together in motel that’s really seedy, even by their standards. “Not really.”

 

Dean says, “Uh,” because he’s not sure what to say. It had certainly seemed like Sam was going back.

 

“We went to Europe, summer after our freshman year. Brady paid.”

 

“Nice.” Dean doesn’t want to talk about what Sam did without him. He wants to pretend it didn’t happen.

 

“And I really missed you, you know? I think it was the travelling.”

 

Dean keeps quiet. He’s not sure where this is going.

 

“And I kept meaning to call you…”

 

“For two fucking years Sammy?”

 

Sam shakes his head. “I wanted to finish law school,” he says. “If I’d called you would have come, maybe just to visit, but there would have been a hunt, there always is, and, well, yeah. I guess we would have ended up here sooner and Jess wouldn’t’ve ever had to be involved.” It looks like a particularly unhappy thought.

 

“You were gonna go back and marry her Sam.”

 

Sam moistens his lips. “Yeah,” he says, “I thought about it. A lot. But not without you.”

 

“Girl can only marry one guy at a time dude,” Dean says and then immediately wishes he could take it back because Sam isn’t nine and asking to be with Dean forever, he’s just talking about phone calls between brothers.

 

Sam doesn’t flinch though. He looks frustrated. “I wanted it all, Dean,” he says. “I wanted a wife and a career _and_ you. But then you came anyway and it didn’t matter. I think I was done.” He sighs, “Such a waste,” he says and Dean knows they’re talking about Jessica’s short life.

 

He pictures Sam living in a big house, driving to work every morning in a suit, stopping for a fancy coffee and coming home to Jessica’s home cooked food. Where could he possibly fit into that picture? Visiting between hunts? Hardly. They would be lucky to last a few months without being torn limb from limb by something that had followed Dean home. Even phone calls were risky. Perhaps Sam had intended to persuade Dean to give up hunting too. It’s all Dean knows but he might have given it up anyway. A barbeque at the weekend; the occasional football match: Dean knows he would have taken an hour a week if it was all he could get. He knows it’s pathetic too but he’s had three years without Sammy and it had been killing him.

 

Dean had tried not to be glad that Jess was dead. Hell, nobody deserved to be burned alive on their ceiling and she had seemed like a nice kid, but it _had_ made for a neat end to Sam’s life at Stanford and cleared the way for them to be together, without Dad.

 

If Sam had been leaving Jess anyway… Dean supposes he could feel sorry that she died. Sam is taking his guilty thoughts away for him, manipulative bastard. His chest swells with love for his little brother. So crafty.

 

****

 

Dean flirts with their waitresses and Sam watches. It reminds Dean of what they got up to when Dad was away, of all the times Sammy spied on him fucking girls that Dean brought home for Sam to see. He goofs around a lot and shows off because he loves it when Sam watches him. Sam rolls his eyes and mutters dark things and it’s wonderful; liberating.

 

Dean has little use for bars and women with Sam around. He does his drinking in their rooms and limits himself to a beer or two. Sam drives him crazy with want, of course, every day, but there’s a fresh fantasy every evening. Compared to the last three years of shame, jacking off to the memory of his brother’s tears or slowly losing his soul through drunken liaisons, Dean’s in heaven. He makes a routine of ‘showering’ in the evenings, right before bed, and he thinks he has it under control.

 

Sam probably knows what he’s up to in the bathroom because not much gets past Sam, but he can’t know what Dean fantasizes about, even if he can sometimes hear the telltale rhythm of Dean’s fist. Hell, they’re both red blooded men. Sam must expect Dean to jack off sometimes… except Sam doesn’t seem to. Sam tends to shower in the mornings but unless he’s really quick he can only have time for an all-over wash ( _and there’s one of Dean’s favorite fantasies, right there… with the look Sammy gave him that time he let Dean see…_ ) Sam must be jacking off. Nobody could go this long without.  Dean thinks he must be hiding it well, and he would expect nothing less from Sammy really. Dean wonders about all the possible ways he hides it. He usually wonders about it in the shower.

 

****

 

Sam’s researching at the little round table by the window and Dean’s watching The Munsters. It’s not like he could help if he wanted to because there’s only one Book of Arcane Candle Lore and Sam’s all over it, making notes and then _highlighting_ the notes. Geek.

 

Dean feels himself nodding off and it’s pleasant so he gives in to it. When he wakes Sam is flustered, slipping his notebook into his rucksack. He’s not fast enough to hide it from Dean though: Dean can go from zero to sixty in six point six seconds (when he’s sober) and he sleeps with a hunting knife under his pillow. He jumps up to grab the pad but Sam really doesn’t want to give it up. There ensues a short wrestling match which Dean loses, finding himself face down beneath the world’s smartest sasquatch, arm twisted up his back in warning. But the notebook is right under his chin and his mouth is free. He doesn’t think Sammy will really break his arm so he reaches out with his mouth to flip it over.

 

Sam says, “Dean. Don’t,” but it’s too late. Sam has drawn a very detailed picture of Dean’s sleeping face in blue ballpoint pen. It’s a good likeness. Dean thinks the Feds could use it to hunt him down, if anyone would believe the soft faced sleeper was capable of criminal activity. Sam has beautified him. The face in the picture is almost pretty. It must have taken ages.

 

Something in the atmosphere has shifted and Sam releases Dean and jumps up as though he has been burned. Dean swallows and says, “Shoulda sent you to art school Sammy,” but his voice is embarrassingly rough. “Hey,” Dean says because Sam’s turning away, “Hey, it’s only a picture,” but the damage has been done. Sam goes out.

 

Dean looks at the picture again. He’s hardly an art critic but it’s obvious why Sam didn’t want him to see it. It’s so soft and tenderly done; a caress on paper. “Turning me into a _girl_ Sammy,” he mutters, and flicks through the pages, just to check.

 

It’s all notes, notes and notes. Fastidious and highlighted and very Sam. Then he sees that there are pages missing, torn out carefully but there are tiny shreds poking out of the notebook’s spine.

 

Dean checks the window for Sam. His rucksack is open, where he left it, and Dean has to look, he has to. There are six other drawings carefully fitted into the cover of a book Dean would never ever read. Two are of Dean’s sleeping face, better even than the one he had interrupted. There’s a drawing of Dean in a towel and he thinks Sam has been a bit over generous with the muscle tone on that one.

 

There are two full length sleeping poses and these are more detailed again, obviously drawn from a live model rather than a memory. There’s not much left to the imagination in one of them: just a corner of a sheet strategically draped. Dean doesn’t remember sleeping like that. Hell, he couldn’t risk sleeping like that with Sam in the next bed. His modesty is safer in the other drawing and Sam seems to have given him a snake tattoo on his chest… but no. Not a snake. It’s a letter ‘S’, slightly left of center.

 

His heart is hammering now and Dean’s cock is very interested, trying to push its way out of his jeans. The final picture very nearly makes him come in his pants: it’s Dean fucking Sophie Kinsela in the ass, he recognizes it right away. It can’t be anything else. Sam has even remembered details that Dean has long forgotten: the creepy ornate dresser and the ancient candelabra wall lights. It looks like porn in Dracula’s lair. This drawing is older than the others. The paper is different, not from the little notebook Sam carries around, and it’s bigger, folded in two. The fold looks used; old. Dean wonders how long ago Sam drew it and how long he’s been carrying it around. How many times he’s taken it out and looked at it. Jesus. He presses his hand over his straining cock. Dean is going to have to take care of himself before Sam gets back.

 

He carefully replaces the drawings in the right order and puts the rucksack back together before locking himself in the bathroom. He frees himself from his jeans and strokes roughly. It feels so good. Him and Sammy, this thing they have, it was inevitable. The almost-kiss before Sam left should have told him that. Dean’s going to the special hell for men who want to fuck their brothers but he thinks he’s already got a decade’s experience of what that’s going to be like, and as long as Sammy’s with him he doesn’t care anymore. He thinks of the younger Dean in the drawing looking straight at the viewer, the _voyeur_. He imagines Sammy’s fingertips touching his face in the drawing, his body, his cock where it disappears in Sophie’s ass, and he comes like he did in the drawing, hard and silent, Sam’s name trapped inside.

 

****

 

They don’t talk about the drawing because it can only take them in one direction, and Dean doesn’t know about Sam, but he’s terrified.

 

Three days pass and then Dean’s in the shower, wanking, and there’s a sound on the door. It’s too soft for a knock. It sounds a lot like Sam put his hand against the door and left it there. “Sam?” Dean whispers.

 

“Dean.”

 

 _Christ._ Dean moans and comes shakily all over the tiles and porcelain.

 

**** 

 

Dean is hyper alert now when he’s in the shower. He thinks he might know when and where Sam has been jacking off, and sure enough, now that he’s listening for it, tiny noises give Sam away: the slight give of a wooden door; a scuff of carpet; a stifled moan.

 

It’s another week before Sam opens the door. Dean could have locked it but he didn’t. Dean freezes, cock in hand hot water bouncing off his chest. Sam just looks at him and then he says, “ _Please_ ,” and Dean’s doing it, jacking off for his little brother, putting on a show. He doesn’t take his eyes off Sammy until the last moment when he lets his head fall back as he comes. When he looks back Sam has gone.

 

There’s no way they can not talk about this. Even the most repressed macho douchebag (and Dean thinks he might come close) would have to say something after what just happened. He rests his hands on the tiles, bows his head and lets hot water pelt the back of his neck. Courage. He could use a drink.

 

Sam is in bed, turned away from him, giving Dean an excuse not to talk. He sits on his own bed, “Sammy.” Sam turns and he’s been crying, and the awkwardness doesn’t matter anymore. Dean kneels next to him and brushes his hair back, away from his face, where it stays for once because it’s wet with sweat and tears. “Sammy, no, no, shhhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

 

Sam doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at a spot on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s legs are starting to cramp when he finally speaks. “Thank you,” he says, and that’s it. Dean shifts so that he’s sitting next to Sam’s bed and Sam drifts off to sleep.

 

****

 

They’re woken by the sound of the local police breaking down the door of the room next to theirs. It’s a precaution they sometimes take and it has paid off today. By the time they figure out the room swap Sam and Dean are long gone but when the adrenalin dies down the unease settles back in. Dean imagines a time bomb between them on the front seat. He can almost see it, like a giant cartoon come to life. He bites the bullet.

 

“Like to watch eh Sammy?”

 

Sam puts both hands over his face and says, “Not fair Dean, nowhere to go!” and it comes out all muffled. A mile passes, then another.

 

Sam drops his hands and says, “Like to _be_ watched Dean?” and it’s Dean’s turn to squirm.

 

“Yeah,” he says, “Reckon I do.”

 

“So we’re good then?” Sam asks, managing to sound cool.

 

“Yeah,” Dean can’t help the wide grin that splits his face, “ _Fuck_ yeah, Sammy,” and he toes the gas pedal, pushing the Impala even faster. He is so done running, just as soon as they cross a couple of state lines and get out of dodge. He slips Bon Jovi back in the tape deck. Sam snorts and rolls his eyes but he’s grinning too.

 

_We've got to hold on to what we've got_  
 _'Cause it doesn't make a difference_  
 _If we make it or not_  
 _We've got each other and that's a lot_  
 _For love - we'll give it a shot_

 

****

 

It’s late when they are finally far enough away to feel safe from the law. Dean has been silently planning what he’s going to do to Sammy all day. He’s going to kiss Sammy today, he thinks, and that’s all. Dean has been hard on and off for the best part of fourteen hours, feeling Sam’s eyes on him while he drove, and he needs to get off first. Assuming Sam wants to be kissed, Dean’s going to have a hard enough time keeping it to kissing (no pun intended), even if he does jack off in the shower first.

 

“There.” Sam’s pointing to a motel further down the road, “We’re far enough away now. Come on Dean,” and Sam’s voice sounds a bit raw. Dean figures it has been a long hot drive for both of them. He swings the Impala into the lot and checks them in, doing the room switch thing again just to make sure.

 

When they’re in the room, door closed, Sam just drops his rucksack and stands three feet away from Dean expectantly. It’s almost like he’s squaring up for a fight, except his posture is open. He’s begging to be kissed. Dean wants to ravage him.

 

Dean forces himself to say, “I need a shower.”

 

“Can I watch?” Sam asks immediately. He hadn’t been expecting that.

 

“Sure,” says Dean, because what else can he say? This is going to be Dean’s quickest ever performance. He’s going to be lucky to make it to the shower. In fact the shower thing is kind of redundant now.

 

Sam says, “Don’t really need the shower,” like he’s reading Dean’s mind and Dean needs to get out of his fucking constrictive pants right the fuck now. He goes to the bathroom anyway and strips, feeling Sam’s eyes on him from the doorway. When he frees his cock it slaps wetly up against his belly and he hears a hiss from Sam. The water is blessedly instantly hot and Dean gets in, gets wet and wraps a hand around his cock. _Oh yeah._ This was going to be over really really soon.

 

When he opens his eyes Sam is standing right next to the bathtub, clothes getting soaked by the spray because Dean has left the shower curtain open. Sam puts his hands on the side of the tub, leans his head and shoulders into the spray, nudging Dean’s hand away with his face, and Dean thinks wildly, _There was supposed to be kissing first_ , and then Sam takes Dean’s cock into his mouth.

 

Dean yells “AAgh!” and shoots like a supernova, stars and all, without any warning. Sam drinks it all down and when Dean’s done he pulls back and stands there pushing back his wet hair, pupils completely blown and trained on Dean. Dean just stands there for a moment stupidly, mouth slightly open. Sam smiles at him with one side of his mouth, _God his mouth_ , snags a towel and holds it open for Dean who feels like a toddler after bath time.

 

The bathroom floor is awash but it’s not the worst thing they’ve done to a motel room by a long shot. They lie together on one of the beds by silent agreement and Dean remembers that Sam must still be achingly hard and unseen to, until he notices the seeping wetness at Sam’s crotch. He looks up at Sam, surprised, and Sam _blushes_. “I guess you’re just too sexy,” Sam says.

 

“You found my other drawings,” Sam says after a while. It’s not a question so Dean doesn’t say anything. “The one of you and Sophie, I did it in a garden in Saint Tropez.”

 

“Well get you Sammy,” Dean says and pulls their faces together. Sam opens up to him completely and Dean tastes himself. They kiss slowly, for ages, probing and exploring. Dean needs to get out of the towel and Sam needs to get out of his wet sticky clothes but Sam’s like a furnace keeping them both warm and Dean falls asleep with his head on Sam’s damp shirt, one huge hand on his shoulder.

 

****

 

Sometime in the night Dean gets up and takes a leak. Maybe Sammy thinks he’s creeping up but Dean can feel his eyes burning a hole between his shoulder blades from the doorway. Dean says, “ _Dude_ ,” because he’s _pissing_ , and Sam snorts a quiet laugh and strips down, running the shower again.

 

Dean climbs in with him. Sam’s body is incredible. Dean runs soapy hands all over him and it’s like worshiping at the Shrine of Adonis. He gropes, unashamedly, and they embrace, cocks and tongues bumping and sliding together. After a while Sam says, “Better out there,” nodding to the doorway and they dry off and move to the bed.

 

There’s more kissing and touching and Dean doesn’t feel the need to think about what he’s doing or say anything. It just feels so right, him and Sammy, like they should have done this ages ago. Maybe they should. Dean spreads precome around the head of Sam’s cock and then strokes him firmly, loving the weight and heat, and the moans it wrings from Sammy.

 

Sam pulls away from Dean’s hand though studies his face. “Dean,” he says, and Sam’s voice is so sexy like this, intimate and hushed. “Dean, I want to… will you let me…” he bites his lips together and says, “Dean, I want to fuck you.”

 

Dean’s cock definitely likes the idea because it jerks against Sam’s thigh. Sam looks smug. “Yeah Sammy. _Fuck_ ,” he says, more a curse than a concept.

 

Sam seems to know what he’s doing, raising Dean’s hips on a few pillows and retrieving lube. It makes Dean’s insides twist with jealousy for a moment, imagining some tanned French boy teaching his Sammy, but then Sam is pushing a lubed finger into him and stroking his cock softly and Dean forgets all about being jealous.

Sam prepares him well beyond the point of reason, as far as Dean’s concerned. He has three of Sam’s big fingers shoved knuckle deep in his ass and he has been bucking and squirming on them for far too long. He’s hot and sweaty and his cock is painfully full in Sam’s too-light grip. Dean is running off expletives, trying to goad Sam to action, using every trick he knows. Sam is looking very pleased with himself and more than a little amused. He pulls his fingers out, stopping Dean mid-flow and uses the momentary silence to ask if they can fuck in front of the mirror. “I just want to watch you Dean,” he says, voice like liquid chocolate, “I want to watch what I can do to you.”

 

Dean can be any kind of lover. There was never any feedback from Sam about which techniques he preferred, all those times he watched Dean with some girl, so Dean had learned it all. From now on, Dean only ever wants to be what Sam wants him to be. Nobody has ever taken Dean before: he has always done the taking. And Sam is taking him now, kneeling on the floor before a full length mirror, Dean’s hands braced either side. Sam is taking his body and his sanity; Sam is claiming Dean in every way. Sam puts his mouth right by Dean’s ear and says, “So beautiful Dean, so fucking beautiful,” and for a moment Dean sees himself the way Sammy must see him, chest and face flushed, cock straining in Sam’s hand, his arm wrapped around Dean, holding him tight. Dean looks lust-drunk, vulnerable and loved. Sam’s dark eyes meet his in the mirror and Dean surrenders completely, moaning, “Sammy, uhhhh,” shooting all over Sam’s hand and splashing the glass, and Sam’s coming too, biting gently into Dean’s shoulder and whispering, “ _Fuck, fuck,_ ”  while his shudders wrack both of their bodies.  

 

****

 

Dean wakes and checks for Sammy and Sammy’s there, wrapped all around him, giant limbs entwined with his own, long hair sticking up at odd angles from sleeping on it wet. Dean smiles.

 


End file.
